


blush

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Copious usage of the word 'cunt', Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:31:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s never like this anywhere but her bed. Outside the walls of her chambers, he’s unfailingly kind and polite, his words careful, mannered, proper. He treats her so gently, so sweetly. It makes it all the more potent, all the more shamefully thrilling when he pushes her down onto the feather ticking of the bed and curls his blunt fingers inside her, and says wicked, improper things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blush

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the **[kinkmeme](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/)** prompt: Robb/Sansa - She's embarrassed at how hot it makes her when he talks dirty to her, especially when he says the word "cunt" and talks about loving the taste of hers.

The first time he says it, she doesn’t think on it until later. She’s too overwhelmed, too inundated with feeling and sensation and sheer blinding want, too consumed by his mouth between her thighs, licking and tasting and sucking and driving her mad. She’d been embarrassed at first when she understood what he meant to do, scandalized that such a thing was done at all, but at the first touch of his tongue her hands had fallen away and she’d only lain stunned and helpless. Her body still buzzes with it hours later, her chest growing tight whenever she remembers it, a queer sweet ache collecting between her thighs and radiating out through her body to make her feel restless.

“Gods, Sansa, you have the sweetest cunt,” is what he’d said, and oh, it makes her feel half a hundred times more achy and restless when she remembers it afterwards when she’s alone, when her mind returns to it over and over, how his voice had been so dark and rough, how he’d said the word – that terrible, vulgar word – like it was the sweetest endearment. She should be appalled. She should be disgusted. Instead she just squirms in her chair and feels her cheeks heat and battles the embarrassment of wanting to hear him say it again.

The second time, she’s waiting for it, anticipating it with a nervous mix of shame and excitement. Her body is tense and quivering when he shoulders her thighs apart, breathes in the scent of her like she’s perfume. “All day I thought of this, getting my mouth on your cunt,” he says, thick and hot, and then that’s exactly what he does, licking and sucking at her with noises so obscene they make her blush, and she feels she might literally perish from the sweet, painful pleasure of it all.

The third time, he figures her out.

He’s never like this anywhere but her bed. Outside the walls of her chambers, he’s unfailingly kind and polite, his words careful, mannered, proper. He treats her so gently, so sweetly. It makes it all the more potent, all the more shamefully thrilling when he pushes her down onto the feather ticking of the bed and curls his blunt fingers inside her, and says wicked, improper things. 

“Gods, so wet for me, Sansa,” he groans, and she tingles, knowing what’s coming, tensing in miserable, blissful anticipation. “Can’t get enough of your hot, sweet cunt.” Her whole body tightens at the word, she pulses around his fingers pushed deep within her, and he raises his eyebrows in surprise, his face looking like he just learned the best sort of secret. He curls his fingers again, angles his thumb to rub over the spot that makes her see stars. 

“So you like that, do you?” he says, casually, as if they’re having some conversation in the solar about supper or the weather. “When I praise your sweet, perfect cunt.” Again she throbs around his fingers at the word, her whole body shuddering, her fingernails surely leaving marks where they dig into his shoulders, and he grins.

“Robb,” she squeaks, helpless and embarrassed and desperate with want.

“You’re a filthy girl, Sansa,” he says, delving his fingers deeper and lowering his mouth to suck at the skin of her neck the way she wants him to suck elsewhere, the way she can’t stop thinking about, gods, she’s become some sort of slattern. “You’re my sweet, filthy girl, aren’t you?” He kisses his way down her body, nipping at her collarbone, testing her nipple with careful teeth, dipping his tongue into her navel and making her squirm. He moves lower and lower, her body heating to a fever pitch at the thought of where he’s heading, his beard scraping a path down her belly to the juncture of her thighs.

“Please,” she breathes. Her cheeks burn at her lack of shame, at the wanton spread of her knees and the insistent grip of her fingers in his silk-soft hair, but she can’t stop herself.

“You love it when I say I want to get my mouth on your hot” – he breaks off to lave his tongue over her in one hot swipe that stops her breath – “wet” – his tongue dips deep – “cunt” – he covers her with his mouth and sucks, and she’s dying, she’s sure of it. His nose is mashed against her, the rub of his beard leaving scratched patterns on the tender skin of her thighs. His fingers are still inside her and he twists and pushes them in a maddening rhythm as his lips and tongue break her apart into the tiniest pieces. Her strangled moan hits her ears.

“So sweet,” he rasps, hitching her leg over his shoulder so he can get lower, can get his tongue at her more, gods, _gods_. “Your cunt tastes like sugar and honey and wine and summer, Sansa, you’ve the sweetest cunt in all the world.” It shouldn’t do such things to her, hearing him saying it over and over, it shouldn’t but it does, and she can tell she’s wet and sopping just from the sounds his mouth makes against her. She finds release once, stiffening and holding his face to her so fiercely, so shamelessly she can’t believe herself. He doesn’t seem to mind, and he licks her, gently, giving her only a moment’s respite before he has her body gathering again, desperate and still wanting. When he lifts his mouth, her hips jerk instinctively towards him, her body begging more in a wordless plea.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he says, chuckling. She ignores her embarrassment, strains towards him, not caring at how terrible and wanton it is. He purses his lips, blows warm air over her to make her jump and shiver and moan. “Tell me what you want, Sansa, my sweetest girl.”

“Robb, please,” she gasps. “ _Please_.”

“What do you want?”

Dismayed at herself, cheeks coloring furiously, she says, “I want your mouth on me, Robb, please.” But he’ll take no pity on her, and he smirks, his mouth so close to her, _so close_ , she can’t help bucking her hips up, trying to get his tongue on her, gods, when did she become such a person to do such things?

“On your what?” he presses, ruthless, seductive.

“On my,” Sansa pants, shocked at herself, shocked at what she’s about to say, shocked and thrilled and stirred up like a cauldron about to boil. “O-on my cunt.” His grin is wolfish, immediate.

“As my lady wishes,” he says, and finally – _finally_ – he lowers his face again, the first touch of his mouth practically sending her off the bed entirely. He talks as he works over her with his tongue, his words guttural and primal. “I want to eat your cunt until I can’t breathe, Sansa,” he tells her. “I want you to scream from it.” She already feels like screaming. Her chest gives these little hitchy jerks, her skin feels as though it might lift off her body. He shifts both hands beneath her, grabs her backside and squeezes, lifting her up to his mouth, burying his face against her, his tongue deep in her…her _cunt_ , gods, oh _gods_ , and she does scream, her sharp, shrieky moan echoing in the room until she cuts it short with a pillow clapped over her face, a pillow she bites when her release takes her, until her tongue goes dry and her body is too wrung with pleasure to whisper let alone scream. 

She can feel the weight of him stretched along her body when he takes the pillow away, and she sees him grinning down with his lips and chin wet from her. He scrubs one big hand over his face to clean it, gives the pillow a speculative look. “We’re going to need more pillows,” he says. Even in her blissful haze, she’s confused and she looks at him curiously. Robb leans close, he kisses her hard and deep so that she tastes herself on him and her cheeks burn with shameful excitement anew. “I’ve barely even started what I want to do to you and your sweet cunt,” he explains, low and deep and hot, and he kisses her again, his tongue in her mouth showing her just the sort of thing he intends, and Sansa decides she’ll take any measure of shame as long as he never stops, not ever.


End file.
